


passed through like rain

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, POV Castiel, PWP, desperate sloppy needy dean making a BIG comeback this year and every year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 05:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14826059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: Cas has been gone for three weeks, and Dean is mad at him. This is neither unexpected nor undeserved.





	passed through like rain

Cas has been gone for three weeks, and Dean is mad at him. This is neither unexpected nor undeserved.

“Not a call,” Dean says, as Cas heaves his duffel onto the table in the library. Only the lamps are on, and low. Crumbling books with titles faded enough even Cas can’t make them out are piled haphazardly near a precipitously placed beer. Dean runs his tongue along his teeth and laughs. “Not a text.”

Cas knows he’s only digging himself deeper, but it would be disingenuous not to remind Dean, “I spent most of my time at the bottom of a mine shaft in rural California.”

Dean kicks his hip against the table and crosses his arms, face flinty. “For what, again?”

Cas digs around in the pocket of his fraying canvas jacket and produces a tragically unimpressive amulet hanging off a centuries-old string. Dean stares at, his eyes following its lazy trajectory. “A tchotchke,” he says flatly. He looks up at Cas, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You couldn’t be assed to call for three weeks because you were looking for a _tchotchke_?” He puts a hand over his face and takes a deep breath, resting his palm on his forehead. “I sound like my mother. She always used to get like this when my dad came home late. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says.

Dean sways forward, and then his gaze hardens. He turns around. “There’s a plate for you in the fridge,” he says over his shoulder, and then disappears down the hallway. Cas stands there until he hears the door close, and then he walks towards the kitchen to eat food he isn’t equipped to appreciate.

*

Cas is staring down his plate of shepherd’s pie when Sam walks into the kitchen. He’s half asleep, but when he sees Cas, his face brightens. “Hey, Cas! Welcome home.” He grabs a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water from the tap. “Did you find it?”

Cas holds up the amulet, and Sam’s eyes go big as he trips over himself to take a closer look. “Holy shit,” he says. He puts his palm behind it and gently holds it closer to his face. “This is incredible.”

“Does it make you mad when I don’t check in?” Cas asks. “When I’m out. For a while, I mean.”

Sam blinks as his sleep-addled brain abruptly switches from one conversation to another. “So that was why a door just slammed at two in the morning.” He lets go of the amulet. “It wouldn’t hurt you to call every once in a while.”

“But I do,” Cas says. “There wasn’t even any danger there. Just lack of a signal.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “You know Dean still watches me sleep sometimes?”

“No, actually,” Cas says.

“It’s weird, I guess. He picked up the habit as a kid, when dad would leave us on our own in motels. He was afraid I would bite it in my sleep and dad would kick his ass.” Sam takes a drink of his water. “I woke up one night here probably a year ago? Saw a shape in my doorway and was halfway to the shotgun in my nightstand before I realized it was Dean.”

Cas begins rubbing the string of the amulet between his fingers. It flakes beneath his fingertips.

“It’s not rational,” Sam says, “Obviously.” He puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “He’s not actually angry.”

“I know,” Cas says. He rubs the string so hard it falls apart in his hand.

“Whoa, careful,” Sam says.

Cas drops it on the table. Bits of rust fly off, landing perilously close to Sam’s water. “It doesn’t work, anyway,” he says. “It’s useless.”

*

Cas doesn’t bother knocking. He hasn’t knocked in ages.

The table on Dean’s nightstand is on, casting the room in a homey glow. Dean is turned away from him, so Cas walks over and kneels on the floor, at his side. His eyes are closed, but the freckles that dot his nose and cheeks are more prominent than the last time Cas saw them. He’s been out in the sun.

Dean only opens his eyes when Cas fits a palm to his cheek, running his thumb over the tired skin there. He swallows, and then buries his head deeper into his pillow, away from Cas’ hand. Cas has seen this before, the way Dean collapses in on himself when he thinks he’s been left behind, when he’s convinced himself that tenderness is unavailable to him.

If it were anyone else, Cas would assure them with words that is most certainly not the case. Because it’s Dean, because it’s always been Dean, Cas leans forward and kisses him.

Dean, ever a creature of conflicting desires, kisses him back, a quiet, pained noise pulled out of him without his consent. Cas gets a knee on the bed and Dean rolls over onto his back, allowing Cas to get a better angle. He threads a hand through Dean’s hair, petting more than pulling, and helps himself to Dean’s mouth. They trade deep, languid kisses, and when Cas presses his tongue into Dean’s mouth, Dean groans and clutches at him.

Dean has always loudly telegraphed every emotion he feels, especially in bed. It comes out in every move he makes, every sound, every choked-off sigh. When Cas tightens his grip in Dean’s hair, Dean gasps against his arm. When he finds the sensitive spot hidden at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder and bites down on it, Dean grasps ineffectually at his bicep. When Cas finally makes his way down to tongue at Dean’s nipple, Dean presses a hand to the back of his neck, hissing out Cas’ name through clenched teeth. “Cas,” he says, “Cas, please—”

Cas comes up for air, his hands on either side of Dean’s head. Dean’s lips are red and spit-slicked, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. It hurts to look at him. “What, Dean?” Cas says, almost desperate. He leans down and kisses Dean. “Anything,” he says against his lips. “Anything, Dean.”

Dean blinks quickly, his brow furrowed. He purses his lips and turns his head to the side, and Cas can’t refuse such a blatant invitation. He mouths at Dean’s neck, sucking purple marks he knows Dean will complain about in the morning but admire afterwards in the bathroom mirror while he’s brushing his teeth. 

From beneath him, Dean vaguely gestures to his nightstand, the tips of his ears pink. Cas kisses him one more time, then reaches over, yanks open the drawer, and fishes around for lube while Dean’s hands roam distractingly over his torso. Somewhere in between, Dean manages to strip them both of their clothes. He has to fight Cas’ far sock because it’s the furthest away from him, and finally ends up pushing it hallway down Cas’ foot with his own toe. Cas helpfully shakes it the rest of the way off.  

When Cas returns, Dean takes one of his hands, closes his eyes, and wraps his mouth around Cas’ index finger. Cas catches on and presses the tip of his middle finger to Dean’s lips until Dean opens for that one as well. His other hand drifts across Dean’s face, into his hair again, trailing his fingers down his neck, circling a nipple, then back to Dean’s face, crowded under his jaw. When Dean finally releases his fingers, he cracks open his eyes, just slits of hazy green. His eyelashes at this angle cast long shadows across his nose and cheekbone, and Cas has never felt less like he’s digging around at the bottom of a mineshaft in rural California for a shitty old amulet that doesn’t work.

He drizzles a generous portion of lube onto the fingers Dean so kindly got a head start on, giving Dean’s dick a few light pulls as he makes his way further down. He can tell by the way Dean’s breath changes, going faster and higher, that he’s already close. Dean has always been a tactile person, but since they started doing this, Cas has realized it’s less about the physicality of it for him, and moreso the intimacy that comes along with it that Dean craves. Dean likes to be touched at all times, likes to kiss while Cas fucks him, likes to be held close after the fact for long enough he’s usually asleep by the time Cas, a being who has no need for such things, finally stops tracing the contours of Dean’s shoulders with his eyes.

He kisses Dean now as he preps him, one finger first, stretching him out. With one hand, Dean clings to Cas’ arm. With the other, he clutches at the bedsheets. Cas works in him thoroughly, adding another finger only when Dean gets restless. Some nights, often after hunts, they go faster, rougher. But tonight, Cas kisses Dean’s forehead, his eyelids, his wet cheeks, his lips, as he works two fingers in him. Dean sighs out his name more than once, even calling him “Castiel” at one point, a name Cas only tangentially relates to as his own anymore.

By the time he’s pressing a third finger in, Dean’s breathing has deepened, his grip on Cas and the sheets tight enough his knuckles are white. Pre-come drips onto his stomach, but he doesn’t reach for his dick. Dean once told him during the high after a particularly intense orgasm that he likes it when he comes from Cas and Cas alone.

Cas continues to kiss him through it, Dean’s mouth going proportionally more slack with every finger Cas adds. Cas kisses him anyway, knowing how Dean likes the feeling of hypersensitized lips against his own. He presses his own dick against Dean’s thigh, just to release some of the pressure as he watches how well Dean takes his fingers, already looking forward to how gorgeous Dean will be when Cas gets fully inside.

“Are you ready?” he asks quietly.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

Cas pulls his fingers out, and Dean chokes out a desperate sound. “C’mon,” he says thickly, “c’mon, c’mon.”

Cas slicks himself up, trying to keep it together. He positions himself properly between Dean’s legs. “Please, Cas,” Dean begs. He keeps his eyes closed.

Cas kisses him, and slides in. Dean shudders all over and Cas can hear his heartbeat fluttering, see it racing underneath the thin skin of his throat. Cas keeps kissing him, lifting one palm off the bed so he can once again fit it to Dean’s face, wiping away the tear tracks with his thumb. “Dean,” he murmurs against his lips. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” he says into the hollow of Dean’s throat. Dean whimpers and wraps his arms around Cas’ back, interlocking his fingers. Cas eases out and then thrusts back in, making sure to stay seated inside Dean for longer than he usually does between thrusts. He brushes Dean’s hair back off his forehead then runs his fingers down the length of Dean’s jaw, drawing him up into another sloppy kiss. He circles his hips, making small movements that have Dean thrusting up against him. He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in, Dean’s fingers curling against his back. He does it again, and again, and again, until Dean gasps out, cheeks flushed to the point of giving off heat, “Cas, I’m gonna—” and comes untouched all over his stomach.

Cas fucks him through it. Dean clenching around him makes his arms tremble, the feeling underlined by the marks Cas will inevitably find on his back later and refuse to heal.

Once Dean’s abdomen has stopped twitching and he can finally inhale fully again, he clamps a hand to the back of Cas’ neck, fingers scratching through the short hairs there. On his other side, he props himself up on his elbow, coming up to Cas instead of Cas going down to him. “C’mon,” he repeats, slurred, “C’mon, Cas. Come in me.”

Dean’s always been looser after orgasm, his brain slower to stop him from saying the things he actually wants to say, and it never fails to bowl Cas over, the nakedness Dean indulges in at his most vulnerable. He comes, then, hard enough to see colors Jimmy Novak’s human eyes shouldn’t be able to see. Dean runs a soothing hand across his back, and they collapse onto the bed together. Almost immediately, when every point on Cas’ body is still tingling, Dean turns away from him and wriggles back against him. Cas automatically slings an arm across Dean’s waist, pressing his lips to the back of Dean’s neck.

They lie in silence for a while after that. Dean eventually grabs a tissue from his nightstand and cleans himself up with a quiet, indignant sound. Cas keeps drawing circles on Dean’s hip with his index finger.

Finally, Dean sighs. He pulls Cas’ arm a little tighter around him. “Next time,” he says, and stops. Considers. “Next time,” he tries again, “can you just—” He falters. “Can you just call? Text, whatever. Just so I know you’re coming back. Or whatever.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. He kisses Dean’s freckled shoulder. “Coming back to you is such a forgone conclusion in my mind that it never occurs to me it might not be in yours.” He presses his palm flat to Dean’s stomach. “Next time, I’ll call. Or text. Or whatever.”

Dean laughs and then sniffs. “Okay,” he says.

Cas kisses the back of Dean’s neck, and holds him.


End file.
